


if the morning light don't steal our soul

by sapphire_blue



Series: even children get older [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:07:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23355166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphire_blue/pseuds/sapphire_blue
Summary: I must be as brave as Robb, she thinks, and takes her brother’s hand, stepping out into the morning light and walking to her destiny.
Relationships: Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Jon Snow/Arya Stark
Series: even children get older [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785226
Comments: 9
Kudos: 65





	if the morning light don't steal our soul

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from Halsey's 'empty gold'

i.

There’s always been something odd about them.

They were supposed to be the outcasts, souls too big to fit into their confined bodies, and yet, and yet. They find each other. They always find each other.

They find each at the edge of the world, snow falling like ashes around them, blood-spattered and bone-weary. It is not the final battle, but the War for the Dawn has begun, and the Long Night looms over them all.

They find each other amongst the dead and the living, fighting for survival, for life.

You see, they had once been separated. 

No more.

“Arya,” her name falls from his lips like a prayer.

He has always loved her, beyond caution, beyond reason. He died for her. Turns out, dying for her was easier than living without her.

“Jon,” she breathes and runs to him, throwing her arms around his neck like he is the only home she will ever have. “Jon,” she repeats again. Her voice is older, raspier, but somehow unmistakably still her. Still the same girl who called him brother when no one else did. 

He is loath to separate himself from her, but he does, to gaze upon her face. She has gashes on her forehead, lips bleeding profusely, and she is still the loveliest thing he has ever seen. _His little sister grew up without him there_ , and that thought almost brings him to his knees with the grief it provokes.

His fingers press against the corner of her mouth, dragging upwards slowly to tangle themselves in her hair and leaving a trail of scarlet on her pale skin. His grip on her hair is painful, he is aware, but Arya doesn’t say anything, only smiles at him, tears clinging to her lashes and refusing to fall. He pulls her closer, and kisses her forehead like she is the most precious thing he will ever possess. “Don’t’ ever leave me,” he begs quietly, “Not again.”

Slowly, very slowly, she pushes herself away from him, looking everywhere but at his face.

Uneasily, she says, “About that…”

ii.

“No.”

“Jon – “

“No.”

Lady Melisandre exchanges a wary glance with his little sister. “My lord,” she begins gently, “It is the only way.”

“Then you will find another way, witch!” He roars, panting with anger, with indignation, with fury. “How can you even – “

“Jon,” Arya says patiently, “Please look at me.”

He doesn’t want to. He hasn’t looked at her once since they revealed what is yet to come.

“Look at me, Jon,” Arya repeats, steel in her voice.

Jon does. She looks calm, as if they are not talking about plunging a sword in her chest. How can she even – 

“My lady,” Arya turns to look at the Red Priestess, “Leave us, please.”

With a look at both of them, Lady Melisandre leaves his bedchambers in a swirl of her blood-red silks. 

He stares at Arya, this strange woman who wears the face of his little sister, who looks at him with eyes that have haunted him for years. This strange woman, looking so much like his little sister, who is eager to die for a world that has done nothing but torn her apart.

“Do not ask me to, please,” he whispers in the silence of his bedchambers, “I cannot kill you.”

“I do not want to die, Jon,” Arya tells him quietly, “But it is what it is.”

“I refuse to accept that.”

“It’s not a choice at all,” she says, “Me or the world. Hardly a bargain.”

“You, every time.” The words escape him before he can swallow them down. “It will always be you.”

She smiles at him, and it is such a sad smile that he closes the distance between them in three quick strides and wraps his arms around her fiercely. “The world will end, Jon, “ she whispers against his chest, “The world is ending.”

“Let it end.”

He can hardly believe what he is saying. He has been fighting this war for years, and yet he is willing to let it all be for nothing for the small slip of a girl in his arms. 

_Is this what you meant, Maester Aemon?_ He thinks. _Is this how duty dies when faced with love?_

“You don’t mean that,” Arya says fiercely and pushes away from him, walking over to sit on the edge of his bed. She looks like she belongs there, amidst the darkness and against the furs of his bed. He follows her because he cannot do anything else. When he takes a seat beside her, her warmth seeps into him through layers of clothes. “They wanted to crown me their queen, you know?”

At his bewildered gaze, she laughs. “Yes, I reacted much the way you just did. I never wanted to be a lady, much less a queen. A crown would suit me ill.”

“Rickon – “ He begins.

“Is much too young. And Bran is still lost to us. I led the men into taking Winterfell back from the Boltons and they want me to be Queen Regent until Rickon comes of age.”

“You will be a good queen,” he tells her with pride, “You love your people.”

“Yes, I do,” she says, smiling at him tenderly, “And you love me.”

“My love has done nothing but doomed you.”

“On the contrary, brother,” she says, “Your love for me is going to save the world.”

iii.

The priestess finds them in the faded hue of the morning light. There is a stillness in the air, as if the whole world is waiting for something. 

“Is it time?” Arya asks her.

“Yes,” Melisandre says, “The world will remember your sacrifice.” Her voice is soft, gentle. Arya wonders what her story is, how she came to be her god’s chosen. One does not just wake up one day and find themselves a vessel for their deity, after all. 

“I do not care to leave a legacy,” she confides in her, “I do this because I want my family to live.”

“Your family is your legacy, Your Grace,” Melisandre tells her.

“Perhaps.”

Jon makes a noise behind her as if he is in pain, as if he is the one dying. She is sorry to leave him behind, and she is sorry to make him do this, but the fate of the world comes first. 

More courage than sense, a man had once said of her. Perhaps it has always been true of her. 

_I must be as brave as Robb_ , she thinks, and takes her brother’s hand, stepping out into the morning light and walking to her destiny.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I've had this story in my drafts since the jonrya writing week and debated whether I'd post it or not, to be quite honest. It was more of a spur of the moment thing when I wrote it. It feels unfinished, but quite frankly I didn't want to take it any further.
> 
> As always, every kudos, bookmark, and comment is appreciated. Share your opinion in a comment, even if it's just a few words. T. Constructive criticism is welcome, of course, and if I have made a mistake anywhere, please tell me so I can fix it. I don't always proof-read my work.
> 
> Thank you!
> 
> Cheers,
> 
> Sapphire xoxo


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